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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561442">swan dive</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldcarnations/pseuds/goldcarnations'>goldcarnations</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Never Have I Ever (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff, High School, Hopeful Ending, Light Angst, Rare Pairings, Romance, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Romantic Tension</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:46:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24561442</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldcarnations/pseuds/goldcarnations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>He cocks his head at her. It’s performative, obviously, since he's already made up his mind to help her, but he still derives a mild, endeared pleasure at watching her squirm, radiating distress and defiance and the scent of a perfume that smells deeply, intoxicatingly floral. </p><p>  <i>[ alternatively: eleanor's play rehearsals end ten minutes after paxton's swim practices. ]</i><br/><br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eleanor Wong/Paxton Hall-Yoshida</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>swan dive</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>this rare pair is near and dear to my heart. idc what you all think this is a hill im willing to die on</p><p>PLEASE NOTE: this fic is <i>extremely</i> canon divergent. like i can't even explain how removed from canon it is</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Paxton isn’t the type to get surprised.</p><p>His life follows something of a monotonous, linear trajectory, and he’s never had any trouble going through the motions. He attends class. He flirts with girls. He goes to parties. He switches out beer for kombucha during training, and then vice versa in the off-season. </p><p>Even the occasional requirement of swimming an extra ten laps during tournament season isn’t out of the ordinary, because it’s encouraged. It’s <em> expected</em>. In fact, sometimes he willfully stays late himself, just to swim a little more. </p><p>It usually doesn’t extend beyond that.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The surprising part isn’t even when he sees her after practice for the first time: a short Asian girl pulling at the handles to the entrance of the auditorium.</p><p>She’s not short, not exactly, but she’s small in a way that strikes him as an extension of her personality. It’s the way her torso is slanted away from the doors, straining, maybe distorting the length of her body or reminding him of his subconscious stereotypes related to height, because she seems… slight. Compact. <em> Feisty</em>. Short girls tend to be feisty, and even though she’s not that short he feels like it’s a fair comparison. </p><p>He doesn’t even personally know her, actually. He can’t be entirely sure that she’s feisty or compact or any other adjective. It’s just an educated guess.</p><p>“Hey,” Paxton calls out, jabbing a thumb at the door. “Are you here for…” He tries to remember what else is happening at the school— “A musical rehearsal, or something?”</p><p>He watches her freeze, but she doesn’t respond. Maybe she can’t hear him.</p><p>“You need help?” he tries again, walking closer.</p><p>The lack of response seems deliberate this time. </p><p>The girl tugs again at the handle. It’s obviously a futile effort. </p><p>Paxton realizes suddenly that he recognizes her from somewhere, perhaps a play, an assembly, or in a class of his. It’s the brightly colored clothes that seem familiar, or the long ribbons braided into her hair, or maybe he’s just seen her this tightly-wound before.</p><p>“Eleanor, right? Is that your name?”</p><p>She’s throwing her body away from the door now, her hands still latched to the handle, as if sheer willpower will make the door budge. Her ankle boots skid loudly on the linoleum.</p><p>“I think it’s locked,” he observes.</p><p>She finally skewers him with a glare and stomps over, her hands balled into fists. It would be terrifying if not for the fact that she appears to be dressed like a children’s toy. He had been right about her being feisty.</p><p>“Rehearsal is <em> over, </em> actually,” she—Eleanor—informs him in a scolding tone that seems appropriate for silencing rowdy children or telling a dog to sit. “We ended early today, and I left my phone inside onstage, and, well, now I can’t get back in, because it’s locked, you’re probably aware…” She trails off, indignant and red, and clears her throat. “Not that it’s any of your business.”</p><p>The response—the sharp, unforgiving, dubious falsetto of her delivery—<em>that’s </em> the thing that’s startling. Unusual. <em> Surprising</em>. </p><p>He’s <em> surprised</em>.</p><p>It’s a first.</p><p>He cocks his head at her. It’s performative, obviously, since he's already made up his mind to help her, but he still derives a mild, endeared pleasure at watching her squirm, radiating distress and defiance and the scent of a perfume that smells deeply, intoxicatingly floral. Her mouth is glossy pink and pursed, <em> daring</em>, unabashed. </p><p>It’s cute, he decides. <em> She’s </em> cute.</p><p>“I can pick locks,” Paxton says. He clears his throat. “I know how.”</p><p>The indignation on her face slips. “You do?”</p><p>“Sure. I just need a bobby pin. You don’t happen to have one?”</p><p>Eleanor's already rummaging through several pockets at once, in a skirt that looks so complex and patterned that he can’t even begin to understand it. “I’m a <em> woman</em>, of course I have one,” she says haughtily, as if she’s somehow taking offense to this too. </p><p>Once she fishes out two pins, she places them in his hands deliberately, careful to avoid touching him directly as if avoiding burns from a stovetop. Her eyes avoid him. Her hands are porcelain and birdlike. He doesn’t fully understand why he’s so fascinated by the way she folds them back neatly into tight fists.</p><p>“I don’t need your help,” she reminds, but at this point he’s not sure if she’s telling him or herself.</p><p>“‘Course not,” he responds easily.</p><p>It takes a few tries, but the door clicks open eventually.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s dark out already when they step outside. The parking lot is strange at night, all long shadows and indigo sky and orange street lights cast upon nothing, but he doesn’t mind. </p><p>Eleanor’s car is parked on the other side of the parking lot. Paxton insists on accompanying her, and it’s a long walk and dark outside so Eleanor only puts up a brief fight. They walk in a pensive silence, side by side, and the quiet feels so naked and awkward that he keeps his hands buried in his pockets.</p><p>He notices that she walks a bit like she’s floating. She kicks around gravel. Occasionally she skips, as if she’s catching herself from falling.</p><p>“Why did you help me?” she asks him after a couple minutes.</p><p>“You looked like you needed help,” he answers, because it’s the truth.</p><p>He catches her quick, skeptical glance. “But you don’t know me,” she says, disbelieving. “We don’t—we don’t know each other. At all.”</p><p>“And what’s that supposed to do with anything?”</p><p>“Now you want to walk me to my car?” Her voice climbs an octave. “Even though we’ve only talked once?”</p><p>Paxton knits his eyebrows together. “I feel like you’re trying to make a point.”</p><p>She whirls around. Her boots make a faint sound on the pavement, and she props her hands on her hips and sets her chin in a decisive, frustrated tilt. He’s reminded briefly of a chihuahua, or another breed of tiny, angry dog. Again, the thing about being short and all that. It’s cute, as he’s mentioned before.</p><p>“Okay, I get it,” she huffs. “You can stop.”</p><p>“Stop what?”</p><p>“It’s no secret, you know,” she replies impatiently, “with your reputation. And everything.”</p><p>Paxton raises his eyebrows, and for the first time he’s so genuinely baffled he doesn’t know what to say. </p><p>Intrigue and amusement war within him. Roughly one million questions flit through his head. Most of them have something to do with the violent, splotchy crimson erupting across Eleanor’s face, where she’s struggling to maintain her furious glare. </p><p>“What exactly,” he manages, “have you figured out about me from my <em> reputation</em>?” </p><p>“Don’t make me say it,” Eleanor sulks, then, after another beat of silence, she explains, unprompted: “I know all about all those other girls, Paxton.”</p><p>He almost chokes because—<em>all those other girls</em>? </p><p>It’s not a secret that he’s had his share of random hookups and stolen kisses with girls he wasn’t interested in. He’s gone to parties, he’s had <em> fun</em>, and it’s never been particularly hard or difficult to hook up with someone he didn’t want to think twice about. And it’s not an issue. It never has been, least of all for the girls he’s made out with. He thinks dimly about how <em> he </em> should be the furious one, how he should be affronted and surprised and angry. </p><p>He isn’t, though. </p><p>He’s much more intrigued by the fact that this girl cares about this kind of thing, has <em> read into </em> this rumor. Is currently holding his gaze with labored bravado.</p><p>He must have revealed too much of his shock, because she chides, less forceful, “Is this about knowing your name? I know your name. You should know that everyone at this school knows who you are.”</p><p>“No, I—” Paxton shakes his head, and laughs once, a sharp, involuntary sound that she flinches at. “You care about my reputation—and—<em>other girls</em>? Are you—” he searches for labels, all of them are disastrous— “<em>slut shaming </em> me?”</p><p>At this point, Eleanor's face is a flaming red. He almost feels bad. He would feel more bad if she didn’t jut out her lip and exhale with a force that ruffles her bangs and a petulance that’s probably only charming by accident.</p><p>“No, I am <em> not </em> slut shaming you.”</p><p>He repeats, incredulous: “<em> All those other girls</em>—” </p><p>“I’m not looking to be a <em> flavor of the month</em>,” she interrupts passionately, clearly forgetting to keep her voice even. Her hands are very involved with emoting. Fluttering fingers, dainty wrists. From the skittish way she’s shifting her weight, she seems also to be on the brink of stomping her foot vigorously. “I’m not criticizing you for your—<em>lifestyle choices</em>. I’m saying that I’m not—I’m not just some random girl that you can kiss if—<em>when</em>—you <em> feel like it</em>. I’m not that girl that you can just <em> use</em>.”</p><p>It’s impossible to decide whether he’s more offended or entertained by this turn of events, although he suspects that she hadn’t meant to cause him to feel either. It’s maybe her most captivating characteristic: how appallingly, inadvertently cavalier she is around him. </p><p>That, and the way her tongue—slick, ruby red, entirely <em> unsubtle</em>—darts out to wet her lips.</p><p>“You’re not like all those other girls,” he says. “This isn’t a trick.”</p><p>Eleanor crosses her arms again and harrumphs, clearly not detecting his sincerity. </p><p>Paxton squints at a street lamp. </p><p>She squirms.</p><p>He smiles.</p><p>“Are your play rehearsals…” he starts, and this grabs her attention, her eyes bright on his, apprehensive, looking like she’s anticipating her fight or flight response before he even asks, “When, uh, do they end? Usually?”</p><p>She eyes him. Her lips tighten, and clearly she’s holding back, she wants to say something—</p><p>“Rehearsal ends ten minutes after swim practice,” he hears her blurt out. Her face contorts momentarily with what seems like confusion, before she adds, “You didn’t need to know that. Forget I said anything.”</p><p>He lets his mouth open into an easy smile. It’s practiced and perfected and, truthfully, a little artificial. He tries not to let that on, but he has a feeling that she’s aware.</p><p>“Alright, El.”</p><p>She stiffens. “My name is <em> Eleanor</em>. Wong.”</p><p>He thinks it over. Gauges her expression. Tests the waters.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he muses. “I think <em> El </em> is cute. I like El.”</p><p>Something that resembles a shy smile flickers on her face, before she spins in the direction of her car again.</p><p>It’s a start.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Paxton waits for her the next day.</p><p>When Eleanor steps out of the auditorium she does a double take at the sight of him right outside leaning against the lockers, like she can’t quite believe he’s there. Her knuckles are white around her backpack straps. </p><p>She’s wearing lots of green today. Emerald turtleneck, sequined headband. Sharp dangling earrings, dripping plasticky jade gemstones onto the creamy skin of her neck. Green is his favorite color. </p><p>He likes it even more on her.</p><p>“Were you—” she’s struggling to communicate, her mouth opening and closing enticingly— “Are you waiting for me?”</p><p>He straightens to approach her. “Ten minutes after swim practice, right?”</p><p>She flounders for a minute longer. He suppresses a smile.</p><p>“So you’re just going to be doing this for the next three weeks?” she demands, her arms crossed. Compared to the day before, she’s treating him more like a reluctant acquaintance and less like a bomb she’s actively defusing, which he figures is a win. An improvement, at least.</p><p>“Is that when you’ll stop having rehearsals?”</p><p>Eleanor nods once. It’s a sharp jerk of her head downward, her eyes large and intense on him, eyelashes dark with mascara and striking against her eyelids. She twirls bluntly-cut dark hair around her fingers, a motion so captivating and alluring that he wonders if she knows what she’s doing. </p><p>Probably not. </p><p>It still works on him.</p><p>“Ten minutes isn’t that long,” Paxton notes nonchalantly.</p><p>She blinks, uncertain.</p><p>He waits. </p><p>“Okay, but this isn’t time for you to practice picking up girls,” she finally warns. “Don’t go kissing me without meaning it.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he responds. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Waiting for her is an easy habit to fit into his routine. </p><p>He adapts. </p><p>He adjusts. </p><p>He <em> course corrects</em>. </p><p>Ten minutes really isn’t that long. It’s just a few extra laps in the pool.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A week later, Rebecca finally points out his trend of returning home late. He’s never late by much, twenty minutes at most, but she’s always somehow finely attuned to anything that has ever happened. Actually, by that metric, she should have caught him days ago.</p><p>“You’re not out being an asshole, are you?” she asks when she confronts him.</p><p>“No!” Then, after seeing her expression, he amends, “I’m not trying to.”</p><p>She sighs. “I wish I could protect more women from you,” she says. “I wish I could warn them.”</p><p>“Nothing to warn them about.”</p><p>She laughs at that.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>In any and all discussions, Eleanor tends to exaggerate. If he had to guess, it’s her favorite pastime. She uses hyperboles liberally, flings them into conversation like they’re paperclips or paper Dixie cups or something equally dispensable.</p><p>She uses them the most when they discuss his dating life.</p><p>“You can’t blame me for not trusting you when we met,” she’s saying as they walk down the steps from the school, maybe two weeks since they met. It’s a habit now, and it’s easy, natural. He falls into step with her. “Literally everyone on Earth knows that you’ve slept with half of the female population at Sherman Oaks.”</p><p>“Those stats sound… a little off.”</p><p>“It doesn’t seem off to me,” she says breezily. </p><p>“I’m telling you, it’s not true.”</p><p>“That’s exactly the kind of thing a womanizer would say.”</p><p>Paxton laughs, and she laughs too, a dynamic, joyous sound catches him by surprise. It’s the first genuine laugh he’s ever heard from her.</p><p>He’s feeling a little braver, so he adds casually, “Besides, I haven’t really been kissing anyone lately.”</p><p>Her gaze snaps to his, bright and interested. </p><p>“Since when?” she asks suspiciously.</p><p>He pauses and studies her; he doesn’t want to be too forward, but the sight of her makes it hard for him to think straight. Her eyes are lined with an eccentric, intentional violet, and his gaze falls to her lips, where her mouth parts, open, <em> expectant</em>. She looks like she would taste sweet, like cotton candy or rose petals or something equally whimsical. Not that he’s thinking about how she tastes.</p><p>“Well, how long ago did we meet?” he asks in response.</p><p>They both pretend not to notice the sweet, rosy blush blooming across her face.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>At some point when they’re nearing the end of three weeks, they talk about the length of ten minutes.</p><p>“What I still can’t understand,” she’s saying, voice animated and sparkling and <em> flustered</em>, all worked up about the topic for some unknown reason, “is why anyone would wait an extra ten minutes when they could just—go home?”</p><p>Because it's habit, he could say. Because it's a good addition to his previous routine. Because of the butterflies that have created a permanent residence in his stomach and flutter when she looks at him.</p><p>“It’s worth it,” he says simply. </p><p>She blushes, as is customary, but she also looks over and flashes a shy, helpless grin.</p><p>His heart stumbles in his chest. That’s standard, too.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>On the night of her last dress rehearsal, the day before opening night, Eleanor brings it up first.</p><p>“So, I guess this is the last time we’re walking back together.”</p><p>The parking lot is dark, as per usual. Paxton strolls carefully close with her; she’s walking in a way that could be interpreted as a promenade or possibly a gallop. It’s all so familiar now. He misses it already.</p><p>“Yeah, I guess it is.”</p><p>“No more having to wait an extra ten minutes,” she remarks. “That’ll be nice.”</p><p>He doesn’t answer and walks her to the front seat of her car.</p><p>“You nervous for tomorrow?” he asks her instead.</p><p>She sucks in her bottom lip. “Yeah,” she confesses. “I always get nervous the day before a show.”</p><p>“It’s gonna be great.”</p><p>Eleanor darts a look at him. Paxton knows that it’s supposed to be exasperated, but she fails miserably at hiding the skittering nerves behind it. “You’ve never seen me rehearse,” she protests. “For all you know, I could be terrible.”</p><p>For some reason the energy in the air feels more electric than usual, like something is culminating at this point—whether it’s the preemptive nostalgia of this moment or his unexpectedly vast feelings for her, he can’t quite tell. He looks at her, his heart loud and fast in his ears, his stomach churning with a foreign sensation of anxiety and anticipation, and—<em>jesus</em>. He’s never been nervous like this with any other girl. </p><p>He's never felt a fraction of these emotions with any other girl.</p><p>The phrase <em>uncharted territory</em> is—apt.</p><p>“No, I’ve never seen it,” he concedes finally, “but I know you, and you’re amazing.” He sucks in a breath. “Yeah. You’re amazing.”</p><p>She’s speechless, mouth parted, her back against the car. Her eyes search his with an earnest intensity that’s paralyzing, and then she shifts, nearly imperceptibly, so her body is open to his. The subdued glow of the street lamps paint a peachy sheen across her lower lip.</p><p>He wonders what it would be like to lick it. To touch it. To press his lips to it, maybe chaste, or maybe not. He wants to try and see which she would prefer.</p><p>Not knowing drives him crazy. </p><p>As if acting on its own accord, his body leans forward, chases the sheen, closes the gap between them—</p><p>Tries it out.</p><p>He doesn’t mean to do it, to <em> kiss </em> her, but it happens fast—a lucid, precise motion akin to a dive off the deep end, the icy, elegant rush of being instantaneously engulfed in water. She’s small under his touch, her heartbeat sharp and rapid at the surface of the skin under his fingers, and her lips are soft, slack with shock, then warm and deft and <em> alive </em> against his. She tilts her head; he drinks her in. </p><p>He wants to hold her fully, to tangle his hands deep in her hair, but before he can even think of moving closer to her she makes a sudden distressed whimpering sound, pulls back with a shove to his chest and breathes hard.</p><p>The only thing that he can think about is how wide her eyes are, staring at him. The dread comes as a sluggish, punch-drunk afterthought.</p><p>“Eleanor?”</p><p>“Why did you do that?” she asks urgently.</p><p>“I don’t know,” he answers, puzzled. “I felt like it?”</p><p>It’s the wrong answer.</p><p>She inhales once, a furious, wet-sounding breath. </p><p>“You can’t just do that,” she says. “That’s not allowed.”</p><p>His stomach drops to his feet. “El, I didn’t mean it. I take it back.”</p><p>He knows that he’s messed it up further when her face crumples.</p><p>“You don’t get to just use me and then take it back when you don’t know what you want. When you—you <em> feel like it</em>,” she adds, her voice wavering, thin and reedy. Her eyes are unusually bright. “That’s—that’s not <em> fair</em>.”</p><p>Her arms are tight around her torso now, holding herself, and she reaches up to cradle her face where he touched her. He’s smudged her lipstick.</p><p>“Paxton,” she says, swiping at her eyes. “I think you should go.”</p><p>“Eleanor—”</p><p>She shakes her head, her chin dipping to her chest, but he still sees the single tear track on her cheek gleaming dimly from the street light. The sky is black behind her.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>“I kissed a girl today,” he tells Rebecca when he gets home.</p><p>“You kiss a lot of girls.”</p><p>“This one is different.”</p><p>She raises her eyebrows. “<em>Is</em>?”</p><p>He’s not really sure what the answer is for that question either.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next day, he visits Walmart an hour before the musical.</p><p>He’s not certain on what the protocol is for attending a school musical for a girl he’s kissed once, a girl who probably hasn’t forgiven him and will probably chase him out of the theater when she sees him, but he figures it at least has something to do with chocolate and flowers. </p><p>There’s a peculiar, bleak atmosphere about a Walmart at night, which isn’t entirely unlike his own mood. He weaves past the greeting card section. He deliberates between Hershey kisses and chocolate almonds. He stares balefully at the refrigerated bouquets, at wilting yellow marigolds and pink dahlias and drooping hyacinths until his sleeves are damp and cold. If there’s a suitable combination of flowers that simultaneously says <em> I’m so proud of you </em> and <em> I’m an idiot </em> and <em> I want to tell you how much I think about you all the time,</em> he can’t picture it. </p><p>He’s about to be late.</p><p>Nothing is sufficient.</p><p>He settles on red roses.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The musical is good.</p><p>It’s more than good. It’s <em> magical</em>. It takes his mind off of the churning panic in his stomach. </p><p>He’s engrossed from the first time Eleanor steps foot onstage, and she’s captivating, she’s dynamic, she’s powerful and sensuous and subdued and joyful and <em> gorgeous</em>, and the whole audience can feel it, the way everyone leans forward at the sound of her voice, the way they react and hold their breaths and <em> wait </em> during her silence.</p><p>Her performance is magnetic. </p><p>It’s not too different from how she usually is, actually.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>As everyone stands up for thundering applause, Paxton's overwhelmed again with the panic and desire to talk to her. For a moment, he considers waiting in front of the auditorium for her, surrounded by a sea of theater-goers, but the possibility of being ignored in the crowd is intolerable.</p><p>Nobody gives him permission to go backstage after the performance, but he does it anyway. He dodges quizzical looks and intrigued whispers, wanders through pulleys and curtains, and clutches his bouquet like it’s a lifeline, straining his eyes for Eleanor’s silhouette.</p><p>Maybe this is too much, he thinks wildly to himself. Maybe he’s being crazy. Maybe red roses are too forward, maybe she won’t forgive him, maybe he should just keep his distance and let her come to him. </p><p>He’s never really been good at keeping his distance, though. Not with her.</p><p>“Paxton?” </p><p>It’s Eleanor’s voice. </p><p>He turns around to see her, his heart in his throat. She’s still in-costume, her face painted with glittery eyeshadow and bruised-red, tantalizingly dark lipstick, lingering a couple feet away from him. Her fine boned hands are folded and neat in front of her skirt. He can’t stop from staring.</p><p>“Paxton, what are you doing here?” she asks. </p><p>He remembers himself with a start, glancing at the roses in one fist and the chocolates in the other. </p><p>“I brought these for you.”</p><p>She accepts the bouquet and chocolate wordlessly. Her eyes flick from the roses to his face, watching him with distrust and a thinly veiled curiosity.</p><p>He rocks back on his heels. “So this is what you’ve been rehearsing.”</p><p>“Yep.”</p><p>“It was really good.” He searches her face, but her expression hardens, like she’s guarding herself. It stings. “You were—you were awesome.”</p><p>She bites her lip. “Thanks,” she says quietly.</p><p>“For sure."</p><p>They stand together for a while. She’s twisting the hem of her dress around a slim index finger, her gaze cast downward. The tension between them is unfamiliar. It pulls at him and pricks at his fingers until he’s twiddling his thumbs nervously, waiting for the right words to come to him. </p><p>He’s never apologized to a girl before, but there’s a first for everything.</p><p>“I came backstage,” he finally says, “because I’m sorry for what happened yesterday.”</p><p>Eleanor flinches. </p><p>“There’s nothing to be sorry for,” she replies, and he recognizes that tone, not quite carefully measured, teetering into uncertainty and maybe a tinge of hurt. “It’s clear that it didn’t mean anything to you, so. It’s whatever.”</p><p>“That’s the thing,” he says. “It <em> did </em> mean something to me. You mean something to me.”</p><p>Her eyebrows shift up.</p><p>Paxton breathes in. Considers his next words carefully. After all, there are only so many chances he gets to screw up, and he’s pretty sure he’s used all of them yesterday after kissing her.</p><p>“When I kissed you last night, I wasn’t just <em> using you, </em> or whatever you’ve heard about me,” he elaborates, wringing out his hands. His voice breaks without him meaning to. “You’re not just some other girl. You’re…”</p><p>He trails off, abandons the sentence, because he’s not quite sure to fill in the blank. <em> Different, special, mine </em> are all terrible choices. She’s obviously not <em> his</em>. Saying that would be counterproductive.</p><p>Eleanor’s still watching him, but her face opens up hesitantly, like the sun on the horizon. The edges of her mouth lift up, ever so slowly. Then she gazes at him through her eyelashes and shifts her stance so that she’s square to him and her cheeks darken to a familiar, cloying pink.</p><p><em> I can never stay mad at people</em>, he remembers her telling him one evening, <em> if they have a good enough reason for me to forgive them</em>.</p><p>He wants to exhale to relieve the mounting pressure in his chest. He wants to kiss her and hold her and smear her dark lipstick out of a joy that he won’t let himself feel fully until she speaks. </p><p>“I didn’t think you would come watch the play,” she admits finally.</p><p>He’s so relieved he can barely breathe.</p><p>“Of course I was going to come."</p><p>She's smiling fully at him now, her face hopeful and inviting, and she reaches for his hand. Her grip is warm and nimble and surprisingly soft.</p><p>It feels like uncharted territory. It feels <em>unexpected</em>.</p><p>He’s definitely okay with that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://shakespeareans.co.vu/">my tumblr/shithole/etc</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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